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We visited St. Peter’s Cathedral in Fiesole this morning for Sunday Mass on the Feast of St. Francis.

Fiesole sits above Florence, a village dating to Etruscan times.  A Roman arena and other ruins can be seen near the town square.  Today the square was alive with a market, with stalls selling antiques, lace, and books.

As bells clanged, we walked through the fair to the cathedral, an imposing Romanesque basilica at the end of the square and at the foot of the hill leading to the Franciscan monastero.  The front doors were open wide and sun streamed into the dark interior, lighting the central aisle leading to the modern altar, the raised presbytery, and the high altar above with its golden triptych and glittering domed mosaic.  Below the level of the nave, where we sat, stairs descended to the crypt, where I recalled the relics of St. Romolo, a ninth-century bishop of Fiesole, lie, sanctifying the church.

We knelt in a back pew, prayed our thanksgivings for the church, the clergy and the people.  We looked around, absorbing the vast vaulted space, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dim light.

As I waited, shapes and forms, light and darkness emerged from the gray tones, and I thought how this waiting was like waiting on God, that if we are patient, sitting in His presence, we will see more, be granted increased vision.  Columns running along the side aisles grew brighter, the dark wood of the pews turned to a burnished gleaming russet, the triptych glimmered and glowed in the raised chancel, the mosaics in the apse slowly took form to reveal God the Father, Saint Peter, Our Lady.  The altar at the head of the central aisle, awaiting the Eucharistic celebration, stood solid under white linen with four thick candles.  A boy lit the candles, and my eyes rested on the beckoning flames.  A large crucifix stood to the right of the altar.

The church grew bright as I waited, the colors and shapes revealing themselves, and I knew that in the next hour, now that my vision had grown keener, God would reveal Himself as well, in the great Eucharistic offering of the Mass.

He would offer Himself to all of us there that morning in the bright sanctuary – the young families with children, the aged with stiff limbs and bent backs, the couples sneaking kisses and whispering in one another’s ear.  And they would offer themselves back to Him.

St. Francis, who knew the love of God as well or better than anyone, would have agreed.

We headed across the river to the San Spirito neighborhood of Florence where we found St. Mark’s Anglican Church on Via Maggio 18, not far from the Ponte S. Trinita.  I wanted to drop of a copy of PILGRIMAGE for Father Lawrence MacLean, the Chaplain there.  The church is in an old palazzo and hosts opera concerts on a regular basis.

Alas, after buzzing the bell for the church, we learned from a charming young lady who lived in the building that Father Lawrence was away in Assisi but would be returning on Sunday.  We were sorry to miss him and miss seeing the church, but grateful the young lady was there who was kind enough to place the book on his desk.  I wish them all blessings in this beautiful city of art and faith, and thank them for their witness to the English speaking community.

We decided to visit one of my favorite churches, San Miniato al Monte, the ancient basilica on the hill.  We found the long stairs that rise to the Benedictine shrine built over the grave of the early martyr Minos (a victim of the same emperor as Reparata).  The stairs are steep, but shady, lined with leafy trees, and once were used as the Stations of the Cross.  Today I could only find four crosses, and said short prayers before each, the others have disappeared behind wire fencing.  We continued the climb, feeling the stretch of our leg muscles and turning occasionally to see Florence appear before us far below.  Finally we reached the Piazzale Michelangelo where a great terrace has become the pre-eminent location for photos of the Arno and the churches that rise from the rooftops like mother hens, or perhaps like guardian angels.  The river wound below us, parting the city, under the ocher bridges and a blue sky bordered with white clouds.

We turned to the path that led to the basilica by way of San Salvatore, the church cared for by a Franciscan community.  The door was open and we walked up the central aisle to the full size statue of Francis looking down upon us, his face at once full of pain and full of love.  We said our thanksgivings in the Blessed Sacrament chapel in the south transept, and emerged into the bright afternoon sun.

Further up the hill of cypresses and shade trees we entered the “sancta porta” that opened onto another broad viewing terrace of Florence.  The tall Romanesque San Miniato rose behind us in its green/white marble pattern against the blue sky.  The 11th century church is still cared for by Benedictines, and as we entered the darkened nave I listened for an office chanting in the crypt but all was silent.  As our eyes adjusted to the dim light, the massive frescoes along the side walls began to appear, all roses and greens, telling stories of Minos, the saints, Christ and his mother.  At the head of the central aisle stood the tiny “Crucifix Chapel” added in the 15th century to house a miraculous crucifix (no longer there, but at S. Trinita as I recall).  A stunning golden altarpiece focuses the nave between the rising stairs on either side.

Those stairs ascend to the high altar and chancel where a domed mosaic glitters of Christ Pantokrator.  Stairs also descend from the nave to the crypt where an altar is sanctified by the grave of Minos.  Here, in past visits, the monks in their white robes, have chanted the offices, their voices floating through the vast space.

We returned to the nave, slipped out the front doors onto the bright terrace, and stepped down the Way of the Cross linking the city of art with the mountain of faith.  We crossed the river and headed back to our hotel.

In the massive church of the Frari, the Franciscan basilica in Venice, there is a sumptuous gilded altarpiece off the south transept that is worth a visit.  The goldwork is indeed incredible, but I was struck by the hands and fingers and bits of cloth and blood and hair that had been framed in silver reliquaries.

Some would think such displays morbid.  But I wondered, as I often do lately, what the attraction was for the faithful.  These were not the bones of the average person but saint’s bones, bones that, when living, had moved on this earth with a sanctity, a holiness, a Christ-love, that was noticeable.  These were men and women who were honored, revered, for the way that God lived in them.  The faithful sensed that when they were close to a saint, they were close to God.

And thus it was no surprise when the occasional miracle occurred, a healing, a saving from disaster at sea, the birth of a child to an aged couple.  God worked through the saints.  One could see it happening all the time.

So when these men and women died, it seems natural their body would contain that holy presence.  For a time in the early Middle Ages, the bodies of saints were divided and sent to altars throughout Christendom, to sanctify the holy tables where the Eucharist would be celebrated, but eventually the Pope decreed this cutting up and dividing was no longer allowed.  The relic trade had become tainted with fraud and irreverence.

Today, silver reliquaries, engraved, embellished, are displayed behind museum glass.  Many still contain fragments of saints’ bodies or even clothing.

Others are in church shrines, adorning side altars.  We saw Catherine of Siena’s foot in the Dominican basilica of Sts. John and Paul, the name contracted in Venice to Zanipolo.

Relics, to my mind, are one more physical way of touching God.

We walked into town today to revisit the duomo of Florence, the cathedral.  There were no lines (amazing) and we gratefully entered (no fee, more amazement) and stood in the narthex.  The Gothic interior is austere – few frescoes or mosaics adorn the walls; massive vaulting is broken by stained glass panes.  We walked to the center of the transept and peered up to the colorful dome, painted by Bruneleschi.  The high altar and transept chapels are roped off, so there is no chapel for prayer, no place to offer thanksgiving.  Through the ropes I could see the Holy Sacrament chapel, but alas, from a distance.

We returned down the massive simple nave to stairs that descended to the crypt.

Excavations have revealed the fourth-century church dedicated to Saint Reparata, an early Virgin martyr.  Other churches were built over this church, and it wasn’t until the 14th century that today’s cathedral was constructed, dedicated to Our Lady of the Flower, Santa Maria del Fiore, and I learned today that that Flower, by contemporary accounts, refers to Christ himself.

We stepped into the crypt, where excavations reveal nave, aisles, apse (fee 3 Euro).  An altar bears a cross, and it seemed Masses were still offered here.  To the left of the apse is a glass case containing the skull and bones of Reparata herself.  Martyrs were so very prized by the early church, that it is entirely possible these were her bones.  There is a long lineage of attentive care and sanctified space as church after church rose over her grave, her grave the cornerstone, the keystone, the very roots of the building.

As we left the duomo, we paused to admire the pink-cream-brown-green marble squares that form the fascinating and incredible façade.  The marquetry pattern, repeating in a kind of visual symphony, made me recall that someone once said that all art works to achieve the essence of music.  This façade sings, and as the sun emerged through a sultry sky, the wall of color became a concerto.

We crossed the few yards to the Baptistery (fee), thought to have been transformed from a Roman temple as Christianity cleansed paganism and entered this Byzantine sacred space.  In the center of the rounded western wall the Christ Pantokrator, Christ the All-Creator, in regal robes, sits on his throne of glory, surrounded by golden mosaic that tells the story of Man, from Adam to Christ.  He is ready to judge and to redeem.

We headed back up the Via dei Servi to our hotel, past the church of San Michele with a vibrant painting of Michael throwing Lucifer out of Heaven, peeking into the hauntingly Baroque church of Santa Maria Annunziata with its miraculous Madonna, and finally to our hotel.  Hopefully we can revisit Santa Maria Annunziata.  The entrance is in the chancel and we happened upon a Mass in progress, fine if you are in the back, but we felt like intruders, and left quietly.

My first novel, PILGRIMAGE, has a chapter set in Venice, with scenes in San Marco, San Zaccaria, and Santa Maria dei Miracoli.  The canals are flooding, the waters rising and Venice becomes a haunting reflection of the night demons of Madeleine, who is our narrator.

Returning to Venice since publication has been a great blessing for me, and I’ve shared my novel with a few book vendors and clergy.  And on this trip, as I returned to San Marco and San Zaccaria and Santa Maria dei Miracoli, I have once again been challenged by the definition of art and why we are so attracted to these giant narrative canvases of color and light, these dramatic, vibrant statues of marble depicting the human body in cold stone.

What is art?  I don’t have the answer.

The paintings of Titian and Tintoretto and Bellini, the sculptures of Canova and Sansovino, even the music of Vivaldi, all were created in a world of belief.  The pictures tell stories from the Bible, from the prophecies of the Old Testament to the Incarnation, Crucifixion, and Resurrection in the New Testament.  The sculptures depict the great saints of two thousand years, the martyrs, the apostles, the evangelists.  These works of art are hopeful, showing man’s salvation, his redemption by a loving God.

Throngs of tourists swarm the aisles of these churches; they jostle down the lanes leading to the next church or museum, also filled with Christian art.

But the art is only a message.  It is an expression of truth.  The tourists often do not believe the message, yet they long to see the art.  Confounding.  Do they long to believe?  Do they long to hope?

On entering San Zaccaria one is struck by the massive canvases on the north wall.  But isn’t the body of Zaccaria in the south wall of infinite more consequence?  Here lies the father of John the Baptist.  Here lies the body of the man who lost his speech when he did not believe Angel Gabriel’s prophecy concerning his wife Elizabeth’s pregnancy.  And isn’t the Reserved Sacrament, the presence of God the Son, in the tabernacle on the altar far more tremendous than a canvas of oils that in its own way was simply pointing to God the Son, and painted by a devout believer?

It is as though art has replaced faith, rather than enhanced, communicated, or glorified it.  Man cannot bear too much reality, T.S. Eliot said.  How true.  We must admire the removed truth, rather than the immediate.  Rather than encounter God directly, we can admire his story from a distance, through an artist’s eye.

For me, although I appreciate a great masterpiece reflecting a great truth, such a work is no substitute for a real encounter with God.

We walked to Saint Mark’s Basilica this morning for the 10:30 Mass, and entered the side door at 10 by a brusque guard, through the Chapel of Santa Maria Nicopeia and found seats in the sixth row in the nave.  We were close enough to view some of the liturgy through the rood screen pillars and far enough back to see the five golden domes, the rolling vaulted transept forming the Greek cross plan.

Sun streamed through windows high above the chancel galleries and lit the walls of glittering mosaic and I wondered again in some awe at the glorious jeweled depictions of saints and prophets, martyrs and apostles, the Passion of Christ covering these domes and walls.  I pondered the Temptation in the Wilderness high above us.  Satan, the small black lizard/demon appears three times before Christ in his white robes; finally the demon is shown scurrying off and angels appear.  I thought of our own wilderness, the world in which we live which seems more and more hostile to believers and also the wilderness within our own hearts, the temptations we must face daily – pride, envy, covetousness, selfishness.

I looked about the crowd, now filling the nave.  How many were believers, how many were simply seekers, seekers searching for transcendence, some pull outside themselves.  How many had found what they sought?  How many continued their search?  How many reveled in the momentary light, the choir’s voices soaring through the musty air, the bells clanging high above?

Some, it seems, continually seek, finding but not accepting what they find.  They wander in the spiritual half-light.  ”Seek and you shall find,” Our Lord said.  “Ask and it shall be given to you.”  But how many reject the gift when they find it?  For the gift of belief requires a response, a commitment to Christ, to God, to the Church, Christ’s Body on earth.  Christ Himself is the answer, and with that immense love (not all want the demands of love) we must also love, we must be Christ-like, we must examine our hearts and clean out our souls.  We are called to righteousness, to perfection, to sacrificial love.  We must desire to be changed.

I looked at the domes of brilliant glory and then at the darker sculpted images of the rood screen.  The light and the dark.  We live in the darkness of our own mortality, our own selfishness, but the light has come to show us the way.  The images in San Marco ’s vaults glittered with a heavenly assurance that this world is not all there is, but that God lives among us, God is with us.  By the Cross God enters our world and redeems us.  He has conquered death, the dark reality of our humanity.  We need only believe.

I left San Marco happy, radiant with the memory of soaring chants, bread and wine changed to Body and Blood, the hundreds of worshipers partaking of the divine feast.  And God among us.

Moving waters glinting with light, graceful bridges, bright sun on open squares, campos.  St. Mark’s Square, the only piazza, alive with music – waltzes, Baroque (Vivaldi was born, baptized, and spent many years here), haunting melodies played by violinists under white billowing awnings.  We cross the broad square as pigeons scatter and music plays.  A dream, a fantasy, another world.  Tourist faces of wonder and delight mingled with awe.  Lanes packed with crowds suddenly opening onto silent alleyways, no sounds of traffic or gunning motors.  Gondoliers shouting to one another, laughing, waving their arms.  Cheap souvenirs.  Designer shops.  Murano glass.  Silk.  Leather.  Masks.  Soaring churches.  Palazzos resting on piles driven deep through sand to bedrock, waters rising.  Rows of rectangular windows, prettily curved pediments, fluted columns fanning like marble flora.  Gondoliers in striped shirts singing opera.  Water buses packed.  Bells, bells, bells, ringing over the city, the terracotta roofs.

We arrived in Venice weary after a long flight, San Francisco-Frankfurt-Venice.  The new airport requires a long walk to the water taxis and dock, and we forged ahead in our travel stupor, pushing our trolleys along the walkway.  The boatman loaded our luggage in the bow and we stooped to work our way through the cabin to seats in the open stern, stepping carefully as the launch rolled.  Then we sped off, leaving the mainland behind, watching the wake bubble in long furrows of white foam and trenches of water.  Soon we were in the broad sea lanes marked by buoys, speeding by others leaving Venice, pilots waving.  We passed Isola di San Michele, the island cemetery, and worked our way to the edge of Venice, where the first settlers turned swamp land into civilization.  Here, in this water bound city, the Renaissance peaked, here opera and Vivaldi flourished, here a people who loved to argue managed to live side by side in relative peace, here a flourishing hub of trade connected the East and the West, a channel for world culture.  Here Saint Mark is buried.

The city on the water basks in a late September sun, the sky a dome of blue, with cool breezes hinting of fall.  We’ve settled in, breakfasting along the Grand Canal with a view of Notre Dame della Salute (Our Lady of Health), a giant white sculpted church built in thanksgiving for the end of the plague.

Venice is a passionate city, full of life, and, alas, full of tourists just like us.  Even so, we venture out in the morning for a long walk, planning to get lost, but also planning on finding too.  The alleyways, the calles, meander here and there with signs pointing to San Marco or Accademia.  We pause in shady corners, studying the fine print of the map, moving a finger along a line and holding it tight as though keeping it under control.

The churches are a great pleasure here, partly because there are so many, partly because there is such an artistic expression of joyous faith, and partly for the many Madonnas that give life to the marble interiors.  Each church has its own Madonna, it seems, a colorful image above a side altar, often with fresh flowers and an intriguing history.  I search for the Madonnas with their beds of flaming votives and say a Hail Mary, asking for Our Lady’s intercessions for our world.

One such Madonna and Child is in the Chapel of Our Lady of Nicopeia in the back of the great domed basilica of San Marco, and is accessible for prayer from the north side-entrance.  The Byzantine image depicts a simple iconic face, the young child centered on her on her lap, her head above his.  Her eyes are dark and serious, yet comforting.  Evidently she was taken from Constantinople during the fourth Crusade, and previously had been used as a standard born by the army, so she is called the Madonna of Nicopeia, or Victory.  Today her chapel is aflame with candles, and a daily Mass is offered at 11 a.m., the priest’s back to the small congregation.  It is a sacred space, a corner of the great San Marco, a place to pray.

This was our first stop, and I gave thanks for a safe journey and the blessings of Venice.
We would visit San Marco for Sunday Mass.

My third novel, Inheritance, is now available on Amazon, and soon to be available on other sites, as well as through local bookstores.  This is the completion of my Trilogy and I feel very blessed to see the three books in print.  The characters that have been hammering in my brain to be “let out” are now free to have their impact, for good or ill, on any who wish to meet them…  Madeleine and Jack, Victoria and William, Brother Cristoforo, and a host of others.

This week we leave for Venice, Florence, Paris.  All amazing cities with stunning churches and vitally inportant history.  What will God show me?  As I look through books and revisit guides and dust off maps I think how each trip has been so unique, as though doors opened suddenly and new vistas appeared.  Pilgrimage was set in Venice and Florence;Offerings in Paris.  I shall bring along a few copies.

Back to packing…

My week has been a challenging one on many fronts and when we entered St. Peter’s, Oakland, this morning I sighed with relief at the quiet, the silence, the jeweled light that refracted through the stained glass onto the crimson carpet.  I settled into the pew and prayed the Psalms for the day, letting the sacred space enclose me, wash over me, heal me.

Father Pomroy stepped up to the pulpit and spoke quietly with great authority.  He spoke of the great battles in our world, between God and Mammon, God and Satan, life and death, light and darkness.  The Gospel today was Christ’s formidable warning, or perhaps command, to us: we cannot serve two masters.

How well we all know this, I thought, the great division between self and selfless, evil and good.  Mammon, our good preacher said, meant money and all that currency entailed – goods, the acquisitions we long for, those coveted things that we think will make us happy.  Lucifer, Satan, the old Father of Lies, the one who masquerades as light, tells us these things will indeed make us happy.  But they don’t.  They can’t.

But Christ doesn’t say we don’t need things: food, clothing, shelter.  He doesn’t tell us to starve our children, dress them in rags, or expose them to rain and snow.  Material things, he says, must simply be our second priority.  Our first priority is God.

Once again the question haunts me, how do we know the will of God, in the myriad of choices we are given each day.  How do we seek God first?

Father Pomroy then quoted Saint Paul: “But God forbid I should glory save in the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the world is crucified unto me, and I unto the world.”  In that great action two thousand years ago Christ overpowered the world with his crucifixion and resurrection.  And he overpowers it today in us, if we let him.  We too must allow Christ to crucify the world within us.

We can trust that God will bring us his Kingdom, that good will come from evil, light from darkness.  We can trust that he is a God of providence, that all things will end well.  But along the way there may be denials of self, small deaths of ego and pride.  We live in a battle zone but God will be victorious.

And not only can we trust God that the future will be glorious, but we can be nourished and empowered with his Body and Blood in the Eucharist.  He offers himself to us with each Mass, crucified, so that we may rise with him.

I left St. Peter’s thankful, having been fed in both body and soul.

Saint Peter’s Anglican Church, 6013 Lawton Ave., Oakland;http://www.saintpetersoakland.com/; Sunday Mass and Church School: 10:00.

St. Thomas’ bright white sanctuary was full of song this morning as the procession stepped up the central aisle.  We were blessed today to have not only our good Archbishop Provence but Deacon McNeely and Father Plimpton and – what a pleasant surprise – two of our parish children, now all grown up – returning as acolytes, very tall acolytes.  (One of the young men now works in Zurich, but comes home at Christmas to play Angel Gabriel in the pageant, God bless him, and the other is in the Army, home from Iraq.)  As the procession moved from the narthex to the altar, we sang “Faith of our fathers, holy faith…,” a hymn so laced with patriotism, belief, and brave joy that I feel more rooted and confident with each singing.  “We will be true to thee ’til death…”

And the Archbishop’s sermon was indeed about that Faith, the wholeness of it, the way it all fits together, the prophets foretelling God’s great plan of salvation, the prophecies coming true in the Incarnation, the Body of Christ, the Church continuing that Incarnation in our world.  How can we understand it?  All the parts and how they all contribute to the whole?  Through Scripture, through Liturgy, through Sermons, through Bible study.  Listen and learn… understand the wholeness of the Faith and know the brave joy of belief, the faith of our fathers, the faith we must teach our children.

The Holy Eucharist was offered and we took part, receiving the Body of Christ into our own bodies, and knowing the wholeness of the moment, the regeneration of Incarnation in our own time.

The children came in for their blessing, we prayed our thanksgivings, and the clergy and acolytes recessed down the green-tiled aisle.  This time we sang “Joyful, joyful, we adore thee, God of Glory and God of love…” to the music of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy.

Indeed.  Such a faith.  Such a God of glory and love.  Such an ode to joy.

St. Thomas’ Church, 2725 Sacramento Street, San Francisco, Sunday Mass, Sunday School, Child Care: 10:00.  http://www.anglicanpck.org/.